


한 잔만 더, 한 병만 더

by kamsangi



Category: H.O.T. (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Drinking to Cope, Not Happy, Other, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:27:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamsangi/pseuds/kamsangi
Summary: there's something about the bottom of this bottle.





	한 잔만 더, 한 병만 더

He doesn’t bother with a glass, not now. He cracks the cap open with a loud snap, holds it loosely in one hand as he tilts the bottle back with the other like it’s water. The single dry gulp makes his throat burn, but it’s not something he’s unfamiliar with. The taste of paint thinner on the back of his tongue. The heavy pull of heat into his gut. The sting of something he can’t seem to let go of.

Another shot goes down. He chases it with a third, and caps it off with a fourth just for good measure.

One of the dogs nudges against his ankle, winding around the legs of his chair. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t reach to pet whichever one it is. It slinks away after a moment, leaving him be.

Another, he thinks, and his hand moves faster than he can finish the thought. He doesn’t want to finish the thought. He wants all of them out, out like the way this bottle is emptying itself. He just wants to stop thinking.

He lets go of the cap, watches it tip over onto one side. Thinks about doing the same. Maybe on the floor. Let his knees take him, let himself topple over, let his skull crack against the tiles. Lie there and let the buzz in his head take over the rest of him. Some strange, out-of-body experience.

It’s been too long without a swig, so he takes one. Closes his eyes, listens to the way the alcohol sloshes within the small green bottle when he sets it onto the table, the way it clinks when glass meets glass. The sound scrapes through his mind, too bright and too loud and too piercing. He hates it. He wants it out too.

The bottle comes back to his hand. One more, otherwise they’ll keep on coming. One more, and maybe his heart will stop pounding like it’s going to rip a hole through his chest. Maybe his stomach will stop swirling like he’s about to throw up. Maybe he’ll be able to breathe again. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe, he’s choking.

He fumbles with the bottle again, smacking the rim right against his teeth when he lifts it to his mouth again, desperate for something to make the seconds count down a little quicker, make the night seem a little less longer. His mouth aches, but his chest aches more. One more, one more.

The bottle’s almost done. He doesn’t really know how long it’s taken for him to finish this one. The first bottle had probably been hours ago, the second one following soon after he’d checked his phone and tossed it somewhere against the couch cushions. It’s been buzzing a lot since then. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care.

He feels hot, like he’s sweating even though he's not. He rubs his palms over his face roughly, exhales harshly, thinks, I need another. I need one more. One more and it’ll stop. It’ll stop hurting. Why hasn’t it stopped hurting yet, why won’t it stop? One more, please, one last one.

His vision swims when he reaches forward again. It’s not there. The bottle’s not there. He needs it, he needs one more, it can’t not be there. He can’t breathe again. He opens his mouth, tries to inhale, but he chokes on something that tastes like regret and guilt and worthlessness and every single awful thing pent up in the back of his throat—

An arm slides across his front, gentle. The sudden soft touch of a hand against his neck, cradling his chin, thumbing over his jaw like it’s trying to soothe him, brings him back abruptly into where he is. He’s in his kitchen, slumped over the tiny table. “Breathe,” Jaeduck says, voice fading in.

He sucks in a breath through his clenched teeth, letting the sound of familiarity wash over him, a counter to the voice in his own mind telling him that he needs one more, just one more.

The bottle is on the table again. He doesn’t want to look at it now, doesn’t want to think about the hours he’s wasted losing his mind to the touch of a bottle to his lips. He slouches back in his seat and lets Jaeduck thread his fingers through his hair, the way he always does. “I hate it so much when you do this,” Jaeduck whispers, somewhere above him, voice tinged with bitter disappointment, an ounce of heartbreak, the silently-brimming anger that comes with finding his best friend drinking himself to death alone at night again.

Again, again, and again.

“Me too,” he says, weary. “I’m sorry.”

He says it again. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry you have to see me like this. This night, and all these other nights.

Jaeduck doesn’t say anything for a long moment, still rubbing the heel of his palm across his front, slow and soothing. Neither of them say another word. They won’t be remembered anyway, not when morning comes.

When he finally crawls into bed, Jaeduck turning off the light for him, he thinks, at least it hurts a little less. Just a little.

A little is enough. That’s what he’d thought the last time he’d done this.

He shuts his eyes, and lets the pounding in his head drag him down into that dark night. It always ends too soon. He wishes it would go on longer. Maybe if he has one more, next time.

Next time, next time. Again, again.

Just one more is never just one more.

It’s just more of the same.

**Author's Note:**

> i like to joke about getting drunk a lot. i also thought about why tony became my bias, today. it's because we have the same shitty issues and the same bad coping mechanisms. cheers.


End file.
